Denmark Part II.

Oh wow, I have a lot to catch up on. Typical Mary-Cait, procrastinating, always late on everything. Dear lord.

The rest of Denmark was top-notch; I had a lovely Valentine's day dinner with Laura K and three of her closest girlfriends. We all went out for Italian and Andrea (the second Massachusetter in the group) brought us all bouquets of roses, which was adorably heartwarming considering I had never had a pleasant, or even moderately good, Valentine's Day until this year, although it was hard to ignore the fact that my Valentine was on the other side of the world. (no, not you mom...ok maybe a little.)

That night we hit up an overpriced Irish Pub wher eI introduced my new friends to the Snakebite (1/2 Lager, 1/2 Cider and a splash of blackcurrant syrup) and then Laura K ditched us, with my blessing, for her boyfriend James while the rest of us bounced merrily along to a club called "Rust." Rust turned out to be a bust (hah!) and I began to feel ill after an hour or so of hardcore dance-age, so I decided to cut my losses and end the night with a good Danish (as in the pastery) and some sleep.

The next morning Laura K and I wandered into town to do some typical American sight-seeing! However it turns out theres not so much to see in Denmark, not that that's a bad thing, I'm a firm believer in avoiding tourist attractions. You can learn so much more just bopping around and getting lost then you can in some museum; after a while they all blend together. Regardless, we hit up the "Round Tower," which is... well, a round tower with a good view of the city, and then took the bus over to "Christiania" Denmark's infamous hippy commune.

Christiania
Wow... where to begin. The town is a mess of graffiti walls and trash-strewn dirt roads leading to houses made of scrap metal and found objects. On every corner, groups of men huddle over tables strewn with baggies filled with green leafy bushels of illegal vegetation. Stands sell cliché stoner paraphernalia: a bob Marley flag, a hemp sweater only 800 korun!

The locals, of which there are about 1,000, (you cannot move to Christiania, you must be voted in by a resident council) wander the streets in packs with spray paint, looking for a stretch of clean wall to cover. The few cafes and galleries sell hummus and finger paintings of clowns, more artwork made on recycled plates and gum wrappers. As it gets darker men huddle around their trashcan fires, Laura and I pass a playground and a park for the invisible children of this 70’s time warp.

The police don’t raid today, but they usually come by once a week.

Too smoky.

I buy a shirt that screams “Bevar (save) Christiania!” and we go home.